


Like Winter Light

by voleuse



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-31
Updated: 2007-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-04 02:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>She was feeling her way down in the dark</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Winter Light

**Author's Note:**

> Post-series. Title and summary adapted from Adrienne Rich's _Point in Time_.

_i. she's writing a letter on a sheet of mica_

Ron found Hermione crying in the garden at ten in the morning, and she'd never felt more ridiculous. Even worse, he didn't ask what was wrong--he just pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. It felt completely natural.

She snuffled into his jumper and wondered, with guilt, whether it was a trade. Whether sorrow and joy had to have an even balance.

"I tried calling my parents this morning," she said, and his hand tightened on the back of her neck, just for a moment. She leaned into it, tilted her head to look him in the eye. "They didn't recognize my voice. They shouldn't have, I know, but--"

"It still hurt," Ron finished, and he touched a hand to her face, caught one of her tears on his thumb.

He didn't have any easy solutions for her--there were none, she already knew--but over dinner that night, he asked Percy the easiest way to get to Australia.

_ii. the century's other letters each stained_

Viktor still wrote to Hermione, though the gentle ardor he'd shown in years past had mellowed to a comfortable friendship. This wasn't something she could explain to Ron, not really--he was still, when it came down to it, too in awe of Viktor to understand.

The War's ripples hadn't stilled, from what she gathered between the lines of his letters. A quick mention of the local Gringotts, suddenly understaffed. Pixies infesting Durmstrang. The first taste of bread gone stale.

Ensconced in Devon, in Hogwarts, in London, Hermione often forgot there was a world beyond the endless roll of funerals, outside the rigmarole of politics. She worried, sometimes, that Viktor found her a poor correspondent, each letter becoming a litany of names and complaints.

But he still wrote.

_iii. raking the graves in Père-Lachaise_

Harry met Hermione in the center of the Ministry's lobby, and for a moment they were caught in an eddy of memory, the horror and rage and frustration of years past swirling around them. It took Hermione's breath away, made her hands shake.

Then it was over.

She stared up at Harry, saw herself mirrored in his wide eyes. She saw her misery, magnified and reflected back.

He reached out, touched her hand. For a second, she could hear the echo of names in his head, thoughts too strong, too sorrowful, to stay contained. She squeezed his hand between hers, rubbed a rough circle against his palm.

"The phenomenon," she said, "hasn't been studied very much, but I know it happens on occasion."

"Tell me about it," he asked, and hands linked together, they walked across the shining floor.

_iv. she must re-condense her purpose like ink_

Luna wasn't officially associated with _The Quibbler_, but out of respect for her mad father, the new owners often called and asked her to contribute a few words.

In the cases when Luna was located on the continent, close by, she would Floo into Hermione's flat and ask to borrow a quill and some parchment.

Hermione, aside from the first time, as Luna had arrived during a most inopportune moment, didn't mind the impromptu writing sessions. She liked Luna's company better in close quarters, when rain poured outside, and there were fewer people to pull Luna into branch-jumping narratives.

So when the end of the month rolled around, Hermione would stock up on Jaffa Cakes and plum-tinged tea. She'd tell her friends she wanted some calm, and she would lay an fuzzy blanket over the back of the armchair by the fireplace.

And when Luna spun into the room, Hermione would be waiting, a smile on her face.


End file.
